


Been, Found, Wanting

by sfiddy



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Phil Coulson development, Skoulson - Freeform, Skye/Daisy development, playing with characters, thematic fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5070760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes based on themes.<br/>Chapter 1- Doors<br/>Chapter 2- Falling</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doors

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved the phrase "been found wanting" and it seems to take on a whole different meaning when you punctuate it a bit. Tags and rating subject to changes as I add chapters.

Been

She’s been so many places that were ‘home’. The word has no meaning aside from the place her key fits.

All the kids dreamt that it was all a mistake; that their real parents are out there searching, hunting, scouring the world for the missing piece of themselves that got misplaced. It was a mix up at the hospital, or maybe they were kidnapped. Their parents are rich and powerful and at this very moment they are moving mountains to find the precious child that slipped from their fingers, or poor and sad but wanting to fill their lonely home with laughter.

Any dream to fill the night. 

Skye hoped for all the normal things, maybe a little harder than most. Some of the kids dreamed of long-lost brothers and sisters, a ready-made troop of family ready to welcome them in with hugs. There was a dark-haired, big eyed girl in one of her foster homes-- she liked kitten videos and science and within a week of Skye calling her ‘sister’ she was packing her bag again.

Dangerous territory—connections. Being connected meant having something to lose. That was why she’d grabbed on to computers and coding and hacking so well, of course. Nothing weighed you down in cyberspace, and the lighter you traveled the less you could be detected.

She was an excellent coder. Streamlined, no wasted code to loop back on itself and leave a mess behind. If she left a mess it was on purpose, disguising her real target. The internet became home, because every door is your door if you have a key.

.

The plane pulsed with wild movement one minute and silent calm the next. People in black and armor and serious faces who carried badges and were classed in terms of their access to information. Dangerous people, the kind she’d fought to expose because that’s what you do to things that skulk in shadows and spend money to wage war and hide truth. You drag it out and shine a bright light to show everyone.

Guys in suits, constantly talking, pulling out guns, and hiding things from themselves and each other. They were degenerate. Bean counters and power abusers. 

This is what she was here for—drag things into the light. Find the front door and open the side door instead. _I’m in._

...

Found

Agent May is the scariest thing Skye can think of. Well, she would be if there hadn’t been real terminators and actual aliens around. When May isn’t piloting a plane, she’s beating things to pulp or doing yoga, which seems problematic unless you look at it from a ‘parts of a whole’ perspective. 

Ward is a good guide, though he’s a little too still-waters-run-deep for Skye. Something is off and she can’t place it, which is odd because she’s really good at that—knowing people. But he’s got her back and showed her how to hit a bag without hurting herself, and somehow that’s a good thing to bond over around here.

Fitz is the puppy who desperately needs a cuddle, but will accept anything he’s offered. Skye appreciates the attention, but it isn’t her thing. Besides, any idiot can see the torches carried around the lab aren’t kept lit for anyone but Simmons, who is either a bit thick or uninterested. Simmons is alright—she doesn’t look like she could hold a gun much less fire one, and Skye wonders if she likes kitten videos.

Despite all that, the two are beyond amazing when they work together. It’s no wonder the first few times Skye heard people refer to them, she thought it was one person. 

Which leaves one. And Skye isn’t totally sure about the terrain here. Coulson is the ultimate bean counter, but he changes the plan when needed. Sometimes he makes decisions that are risky because it’s the right thing to do. He thinks with his head _and_ his heart, and sometimes he’s wrong and has to work through it. 

She didn’t see that coming.

Guys in suits. Not so bad.

.

She’s alive. Against all logic, she’s alive, whole and strong. Shot twice in the belly and alive.

Skye has seen movies. 

But she’s behind a door, locked in because she could be a threat, and for the first time in her life she really, truly cares about keeping others safe. 

So she stays put. Behind the door. Until people start coming in. 

Then he comes in.

“I’m so sorry, Skye.” He stammers. “I was desperate.”

“So what? We are _alive_.”

“This should faze you. We’re completely in the dark.”

“That’s where we live. At least we’re in the dark together.”

And once again the doors open.

…

Wanting

If he didn’t want her in here, he’d replace the cheap retro code lock on the door. It’s stupidly easy to hack, and Daisy knows he knows she does this for fun because he sometimes changes the code. Just for fun. To give her something to do for five minutes.

It only took two today. 

Daisy likes his office very much. It’s quirky in the most dignified way imaginable, with his collected magpie hoard of antique spy tech, a few pieces of World War Two memorabilia, some obscure artifacts that must have fabulous stories behind them (she knows the ax story) and she’s totally going to demand that he tell her some new stories when he gets back.

There’s a few surefire ways to make sure he comes to see her right away. Daisy skims her hand along his dust-free kitsch, and starts exchanging their places. There’s a very clear order to the items on the shelves, though what it is, only the man himself knows.

Collectors are meticulous, nitpicky people. He glued them down on the Bus for pete’s sake.

But she respects his space and his things, so she only moves the sturdiest ones, and never very far, just enough that his eye will notice the change. A small disruption in his well-ordered, staged office, and there is no doubt as to the creator of such chaos.

So, with a careful hand, Daisy switches the replica of Lola with a tin sign, nudges a working antique laser a few inches from its partner, the goggles. Then she moves on to his desk.

It’s ordered and careful, but not staged. It’s obvious someone actually works here, and is simply very practiced in their habits. But there are a few details that she would like to adjust.

His pen and pencil set, for example. She moves them to the other side of the desk, forcing him, once he sits down, to physically turn. Then, right beside them, she leaves a miniature candy bar, because she knows his indulgences must come in small parcels.

But she’s not done. Her greatest service to him is yet to come.

Coulson has two bunks. It’s really pretty practical, since there are times he really can’t leave his office, and these days those times are more frequent. Besides, it’s probably appropriate that he has a separate bunk from the team, being Director and all that.

He’s Phil to her, though.

He never changes the code to this door. Daisy swears he means that as a message in itself. And it’s almost too much, she thinks, that the code is what it is. She punches 1-9-6-2 into the stupidly insecure keypad and pushes the door open. 

It’s tasteful if a bit bland. It’s the room of a man who lives elsewhere, mostly the room outside, and with the people beyond, not in here. This is the docking station, and not much more. A very few pictures, probably because he feels obligated, and a few books he means to read, but this is not a room for reading. This is a room to collapse into when your bones can take no more.

And she alone knows that the code never changes.

But she’s not here to contemplate that. She’s here to do a favor. Just as she offers him the reconnection to his things by encouraging him to touch them (by messing them up a little bit), she does this.

Phil is a good agent, well trained and attuned to details. That’s why his bed is immaculate. Daisy flips the tastefully masculine coverlet up at the bottom corner to confirm.

Hospital corners. It was a planned mission, then. He had time to make his bed with fresh sheets (he likes clean sheets after a fight) and to fold and tuck the corners into creases so sharp they could cut bread. It’s over the top. It’s ludicrous.

This is why she came. This is what she’s here for. It’s a god damned bed. You lay in it. So Daisy does. She does not wreck the work he’s done, for she really does respect his attention to detail and his spaces. But this is her way of taking care of him.

She leaves a dent in the pillow, and some wrinkles in the coverlet. She lets her body leave the impression of humanity on the bed, blunting the sharp corners and edges he’s made, and inviting him to rest.

Daisy softens his bed to remind him that he is a person, tender and warm, and this is where people go. That reminder is her gift to him.

When she’s done, she leaves by the way she came in, closing the door behind her and waiting for the bedroom door lock to re-engage, then does the same to the office door after checking her handiwork. Not too much, just right.

That night they get confirmation of success, so they prepare the pads for the return of the quinjet and make sure there’s fuel for it and the passengers. The medical team stands by, and the engineers are ready to repair damaged gear.

Daisy just smiles, because she’s already done her preparations, and can set her watch by his reliability. He’s nothing if not attentive to detail, he just needs a few minutes to settle back in, and she’s made that possible.

She’ll just wait until he’s ready to open her door. 

.


	2. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts from Phil Coulson's life, one vertigo at a time.

Been

As he unlocked his front door, Phil Coulson scratched at his shoulder absently and wished he could rip away the thick layers of sports tape and gauze. The wound wasn’t all that deep, and the tape marks would be worse than the cut in a day or two. Super spy man could take down a building of enhanced narco terrorists with a weapon powered with alien tech, but his skin couldn’t handle a band aid.

SIghing, he dropped his bag by the door and winced as he peeled off his jacket. Winced again when he loosened his tie. The two-story fall had been easy, it was the landing part that was less forgiving. He would be out of rotation for a few weeks with bruised ribs, their own special brand of hell, though still not as bad as the tape. He bet the edges were already ratty with lint.

With the door securely locked and security system engaged, he glanced out the window and waved at his driver. Phil didn’t hear the engine rev as it sped away—his ears were still ringing too much. An explosion late in the op sent him reeling, letting the last target remind him which end of a knife you need to worry about. The eardrum was okay, but he probably wasn’t going to be using his turntable for a few days.

The bandages on his hand were just pointless so he tugged the wraps loose and sliced the tape with a kitchen knife. The wrap flopped away obligingly onto the counter and Phil flexed his hand, cracking the rusty lines of dried blood that had settled into the creases of his knuckles. The smell of the adhesive, phenolic and sharp, clung to his skin so he washed his hands, grimacing at the sting of soap and water on his cuts.

A deep emptiness gnawed at his insides as his stomach woke up. He was starving. The med techs had been so careful patching him up and tending all his damage, but they failed to provide the most important thing he’d needed after six hours of debrief and medical attention.

When he had his own team he’d make sure they were all fed. Once the smoke cleared and the bleeding was stopped, he’d make sure they all had a meal. Even if he had to do it his own damn self. An op could mean more than two days with little more than a tube or two of replacement, which might replace some critical nutrients and keep your blood sugar from plummeting, but it didn’t make you right. If anything it usually left you needing good food even more.

The refrigerator door opened with a rattle as bottles tipped and bumped against each other. Phil surveyed his options— normally he would have planned ahead and had something ready, but the mission was critical and last minute. As it was, he had milk, strawberry syrup purchased in a fit of nostalgia, various sauces for foods he did not have, and half of a leftover tuna salad deli sandwich he’d planned to eat last night, had the mission not come up.

The lettuce was wilted and the tomato watery, leaking pulpy seeds on the tuna. The bread had soaked up the rest and was appropriately sticky, leaving smears on the paper that reminded him of wallpaper paste more than anything else. Phil pulled the disintegrating lettuce and tomato out and swallowed the sandwich as fast as he could. He needed protein now—he could worry about flavor and other luxuries tomorrow when he had the energy. 

For now, he needed to get on with his routine.

His clothes are fresh, a spare he kept at base so his laundry is never too incriminating. They smelled like decontamination solution now, overly clean and reminiscent of mouthwash and are relegated to the hamper and dry cleaning bag as the tub warms up.

Careful to keep the hated bandages dry, Phil let hot water swirl over his legs and lower back and cleaned as well as he could, considering. There is very little blood to clean away, just the stickiness and general funk of a forty-eight hour mission. He should be grateful it didn’t go much worse.

It takes time, but he struggled into pajamas and settled into bed to read, propped up by pillows under the reading lamp. He cannot concentrate on the words in his paperback when the bed is so cold, so he leans back, waiting for the narrow channel he’s resting in to warm up. He let his mind wander, allowing himself to skim over the day’s events, refusing to shy away and give these horrors place of honor in his memory. These things help reinforce the healthy pathways of thought, protecting his mind from stress disorders and associative traumas. 

This process is an important ritual. He knows that, which is why he never fails to do it. Once they fade, better things take their place—the last great meal he had, a particular turn of phrase he heard, a movie he needed to watch again, a plant he should water in the morning.

It’s easier when there’s someone else around, though, to help give perspective, to offer a quicker segue to normalcy, to offer comfort. For a moment he allowed himself to miss his last girlfriend—she ran hot baths while he ate and let him wrap himself around her in bed after missions. But, like so many she got tired. It was a lot to ask of someone who clutched the armrest when he drove. It was just as well, this was the life they chose. Not many could maintain honest relationships, and that usually meant fraternization, a very gray area.

Perhaps he will not read tonight. Perhaps he’s done enough that his mind will drift and give him some peace. He can feel it, the loosening in his joints, the sweet numbness that creeps up his legs so that he does not care to move.

His bones are settling, drifting. Phil can feel it the friendly pressure of early sleep press him into the mattress as the book fell forward onto his belly. So easy to fall asleep now. Deep breaths. Falling. Falling toward--

A sudden jerk convulsed him awake, spilling the book off his chest. The movement took his breath away as pain radiated from his side to his scalp and back. There was always something, wasn’t there? His ribs were going to hurt for weeks after falling onto that rubble. He didn’t care that it could have been worse, it felt bad enough.

Phil reached, bracing his ribs with one arm, and retrieved the bottle from the bedside table. What he really needed was warmth and company, but this would do for tonight. He didn’t like it, but one Vicodin would take the edge off so he could sleep. 

As his limbs grew heavy again, the feeling returned, but without teeth. With his last controlled thought he swore that someday he would have a soft place to land.

…

Found

“Buckle up!”

His own voice echoed in his head over and over before being replaced with the roar of air crushing his eardrums. And for a brief space of time, just seconds really, he faced the first real panic he’d had in a long while. This wasn’t her life. Gunfire and machine-man hybrids and falling out of airplanes. SHIELD had done this to her, and they were both caught in the freefall of their lives.

He’d nearly dislocated his shoulder dragging Skye back into Lola as she spun and pitched in the air. 

Wild ride. Hard to tell where it was going, or how well. Nothing quite working right, nothing responding the way it should. This gorgeous toy of his was the only chance they and it had been shot right through its precious, shiny chrome gut. Shouting into the deafening winds, he’d begged her to hold on just a bit longer. Promised to make it all better if she’d just come through.

Questionable response. One set of thrusters spluttered and nearly sent them into a critical roll. Off balance, the other side fired into an overcorrection. The ground had grown very large beneath them, and he had to get this right.

Coulson told her she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Told her she was amazing, and no matter what happened, he would never regret anything except maybe not putting more armor on her—not protecting her better.

He tried one more time. The wash from the synchronized pulse of the thrusters sent a ferocious spray from the fountain directly onto them, plastering Skye’s hair into a tangled mat as he wrestled the unstable craft into the hard landing, destroying the hand-crafted suspension and gyro-balanced thruster array.

It was a hell of a parallel parking job, if he did say so himself.

Hours later, when the adrenaline was gone and perspective allowed his vision to widen beyond what was in his hands at that second, after a talk with Maria Hill sank his feet firmly in the muck of reality, Coulson felt the need to escape. Just for a minute or two. Would have given anything to feel the wild freefall again because anything was better than this. 

He left the generic comforts of the hotel room and looked out over his team. The lost children, the legacy, and… Skye.

Chocolate. He wanted chocolate. _(He wanted an excuse)._

“Never been homeless before.” Knew she had been. Needed to hear her talk about something, anything, because everyone thought he was dead and those who knew better wanted him that way.

“It’s not fun,” Skye responded, glancing around. “At least we have a pool.”

He bought a chocolate bar, the biggest damn one, and looked up. Skye met his eyes, steel and gunsmoke wrapped in her glittering eyes. How had she aged so fast? Not many veteran agents had seen a day like she had, and here she was, handcuff marks on her arm and hungry to settle the score.

“We’ll get him.”

And she’d already laid the trap. Jesus she was amazing.

Coulson stripped the candy from its wrapper, pulled it apart and held out the larger piece. Skye leaned forward and took it, glowing like a Christmas tree from the way the lights seemed to reflect and dance off of her every surface. He couldn’t help staring—there were so few beautiful things just now and he was sitting with one of his favorites. The other needed serious work.

“Thanks,” she said, and took a bite.

Coulson chewed sticky caramel and leaned his head back. It was clear—the kind of night that would be cold no matter how warm the day was. The night sky above was lit with stars, twinkling in spite of the golden lights that threatened to wash them out. That was the funny thing about stars, though. They were too bright and too far away to really be affected by the pale incandescent threat below. 

They’d fallen through space together, under the watchful eyes of those same stars. Fallen, and landed here. Together.

“Nice night.”

…

Wanting

It never stops amazing him, watching Daisy at work. When she’s in the moment, she is poetry in motion-- leaping and twisting in a dangerous dance with physics of her own creation. She is the influencer of objects, the wind in every sail, the unseen hand. Witness descriptions read like the fight scenes of kung-fu movies, and the people, human and otherwise, say she is part agent, part angel.

Phil agrees with all of it, and more. Because he knows the way she strips the gauntlets off with relief when her work is done. He knows how much it costs her to defend them. He knows that she refuels with grilled cheese sandwiches, sesame chicken, and banana pancakes. 

He knows how her hair waves when it’s damp, and dries into curls that can wrap around your fingers.

It’s dangerous, this familiarity, this knowledge of her. Dangerous because it can go only go one way, and Phil has never been good with the long-term stuff. Not because he didn’t want it, but because it never works out. 

They need stability. He’s gone too much. _He’s dead._

Phil can hardly blame them. But Daisy knows. She knows everything about him that matters, and that makes her dangerous. And perfect.

He looks down from his helicopter. “Mack, Morse, take your positions at the West entrance. Target is with Johnson and they are sheltering under debris. On my mark… go!”

It will happen soon. It’s like watching a hurricane approach a coastline. The exact location is debatable, but the storm is going to hit somewhere and will shred the unprepared. He and Daisy have approached each other too many times, shared too many quiet moments, loaded glances, and lingering touches for this to not go anywhere.

The uncommon nature of their common history negates most assumptions about their footing. Pedestrian morals and ethics do not apply. 

The debris pile lifts and Phil can see the pulses, like heatwaves off hot pavement, pushing the boards and beams away. Daisy’s arms unfold, and out walks a boy no more than eight or nine, gangly and stunned and doe-eyed in the light of day. Terrified parents grasp for him, and Daisy ushers them aside while SHIELD techs tend the boy’s scrapes, always in sight of the parents.

Her protocol is so thoughtful of families and children. Of course it is, because she is. 

She glances up and waves, hair whipping in the downdraft of his helicopter. They lost comms more than twenty minutes ago, and that’s why he’s in the air above. Phil waves back, doubting she can see him, and feels a split second of vertigo. 

This stalemate can’t continue. It’s becoming more distracting than a borderline inappropriate workplace relationship. One of them must be ready to make landfall. The other needs to be prepared. 

What would she do, he wonders for the hundredth time, if he brought her a cup of coffee and kissed her cheek? Not a quick peck, but the light, lingering type of kiss. Long enough to inhale and exhale and see if there’s an answer to the unspoken question.

It’s not a big risk, they’ve been in each other’s space often enough. She’s slept in his arms, he’s hidden in hers, but it is a change. The thought makes him a bit dizzy, like he’s falling and he has to look up, away from the action on the ground.

Morse crackles through the comms. “All clear. Daisy says we’re good to go.”

“Great job,” he responds. “Pack out and regroup at the hotel. We’ll pick up our gear, get cleaned up, and head back tonight.”

At his left, May called out coordinates and made one final circle around the site. Phil watched as Daisy directed her team and guided the boy and his family into a containment pod. She refused to isolate children unless they were a danger to their parents, and those assessments were careful and precise. Phil had no doubt the improvement in Inhuman relations was entirely because of her. 

As May pulls the helicopter into a turn, Phil gets one last look. Daisy’s face is turned up, and he swears she’s looking at him. That tug in his insides returns, and he rubs at his belly where it feels like a hundred butterflies have chosen to take wing at once. If he’s falling, maybe they can hold him up.

That night, as they’re packing up and paying the bill, Phil pauses and orders two cups of coffee to go.

He’s been falling for a couple of years now. It’s time to make sure he’s not falling alone.

...


End file.
